


shield brigade

by ultalumna (yujael)



Series: smile, goldfinch (as you look daemons in the eye) [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Injury, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yujael/pseuds/ultalumna
Summary: Prompto never goes radio silent for long periods of time. But then that's exactly what happens and Gladio agrees to check things out if only for the chance to chew the guy out for no-showing to his training.That's not what happens, though.





	shield brigade

**Author's Note:**

> What's up it's lumna comin' back at'chu with another fill:
> 
> "Crownsguard training is def a thing Gladio knows Noctis' friend Prompto signed up for. Gladio knows both were very excited about it and ao fsr things are good. 
> 
> Then, Gladio notices Prompto hasn't shown up for a week. So Gladio gets his dad to go with him to Prompto's house, seeing as neither Noctis or Ignis can get a hold of the kid. And if Ignis can't contact someone then something is up
> 
> +Gladio's point of view  
> ++At Prompto's house Clarus points out signs of a break in. They go in to find things overturned and Prompto lying almost dead in one of the rooms, almost bled out  
> +++The other trainees making fun saying Prompto got cold feet and ditched until Gladio or Clarus snaps and deadpans that Prompto got shot and almost died"
> 
> Why, yes, I am here to cause pain for my faves.

Gladio is in the middle of birthday shopping for Iris when the text comes in from Ignis stating that he was not able to contact Prompto on His Highness’ behalf, so could Gladio please perform a check-up in person so that the prince will have some peace of mind to complete his university readings?

Gladio sighs heavily and shoots back an affirmative because it’s only a matter of time before Noctis remembers that he’s out and about and asks him, too.

“Trouble?” His father asks from a few feet away with thinly veiled hope. Try as he might, Clarus doesn’t truly understand his teenage daughter but won’t blatantly find an excuse to stop trying to decide between two very similar but wildly differently priced jackets that might fit her.

“His Highness has been trying to get a hold of his little friend for a while,” Gladio explains. He’s already found the perfect present for Iris, so it’s not like he has a reason to not discuss it. “He’s been a no show for his training for days now. Might have been sick, but Ignis apparently couldn’t contact him, though, so now they want me to check it out.”

Gladio’s a little reluctant, but not that much. He’ll do it to sate his own curiosity. Prompto is kinda skittish and twiggy, but he makes up for it in sheer determination from what Gladio’s been able to see of him. He’d even been a little proud of the little guy for working up the guts to join the Crownsguard. But if he’s not going to show up for training, then not even his friendship with Noctis can't get him what he supposedly wants. He says as much to his father, who agrees.

“Protecting His Highness takes more than friendship,” he says. “Let’s see to the matter soon, then.”

Gladio blinks, a little surprised. He almost admits it, too, except his father is still trying to not look lost and wildly out of place in an outlet store catering mostly to young women.

“We’ll see what the issue is,” Clarus continues, “intimidate anyone if need be, and inform the prince accordingly. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

“Are we gonna be out of here in time for that?” Gladio asks.

Clarus picks a jacket when, honestly, Gladio would have gone with the other, and nods. “Yes, right now.”

 

||| * |||

 

Gladio has been to the Argentum household a grand total of three times, and all of which were because Noctis was holed up somewhere inside. They roll up and the house is as quiet as ever, the curtains all pulled and still.

He and his father don’t both fit on the stoop, so Clarus takes point and pounds on the door. The seconds tick by and there’s no answer. Great.

“I know where your spare key is, Prompto,” Gladio calls to what he’s pretty sure is a bedroom window. The mild threat changes nothing.

“Hm,” Clarus says in that way of his that means he’s found something not only off, but somewhat disconcerting.

“What?” Gladio asks, peeking over his shoulder, trying to spot whatever it is he’s supposed to be spotting.

Clarus doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he holds his finger up to the lock, only just touching it with his fingernail, and then he simply pushes the door open. It goes without protest, and Clarus turns to Gladio and says, “The lock is broken. Has it always been like that?”

Considering the Argentums feel the need to hide spare keys around their yard like squirrels, Gladio’s gonna shoot for, “Pretty sure it hasn’t. Shit. Maybe there’s been a break-in.”

Clarus steps inside carefully and calls from the small foyer, “Prompto Argentum?”

No response. Getting pretty strange, now.

Gladio follows, and they find the first sign that something is almost definitely up in the living room, where it looks like a hurricane whipped through the room. Prompto is a lot of things, but a complete slob like this is not one of them. Gladio’s on guard, now, running possibilities in his head of what went down--and of what he’s going to have to report back to Noctis later.

If the living room is a mess, the kitchen looks like hell, and Clarus swears when he sees it. Utensils and shatters glass are everywhere, the chairs are all overturned, and the table has deep gouges in its surface. None of that is the worst part. None of it makes Gladios spine stiffen even further.

It’s the blood. Smeared on the counter, the table, the handles on the cupboards--the _floor_ , where it makes a rusty trail all the way to the stairs. Shit. Clarus kneels next to the trail and runs his fingers through it. They come away dusty red.

“This isn’t too old,” he reports as he stands. He calls Prompto’s name again, but silence is still the only thing in the house to greet them. He gestures to the stairs, where the trail turns messy, made of splotches and handprints on the steps. “Where do these stairs go?”

“Bedrooms,” Gladio answers. Prompto’s bedroom, at least, and likely his parents’. Gladio knows he’s got to follow the trail to see what the upper floor actually looks like, but he hates that the reason he’s seeing it for the first time is that they need to find whoever left the blood. There aren’t exactly a whole lot of candidates.

Clarus lets him take the lead and Gladio goes, taking two steps at a time. He pauses at the landing to track the blood, which makes a turn only a couple paces away. One, two, turn--it’s the upstairs washroom, and Gladio doesn’t even get in the room before he finds the worst sight in the whole house.

It’s Prompto. He’s there, curled up on the floor with his own blood drying underneath him, too much blood. His skin is pale as paper and streaked with dark red, and it looks as if he’d passed out holding stained and ruined towels to his arm.

Gladio curses and Clarus pushes his way into the room in the same second. Prompto doesn’t respond to anything Clarus does to rouse him. He just lies there, still as--

This is what he’s going to have to go back with, Gladio thinks with cold grimness while his father is kneeling over the body. _Shit_. He’s going to have to look Noctis in the eye and tell him that--

“Kid’s got a pulse,” Clarus says, strict and urgent, a limp, bony wrist held in his hand. “But he needs a hospital yesterday.”

That’s an order if Gladio’s ever heard one. His phone is out of his pocket in a heartbeat. A pulse is good. The blood, the lacerations, whatever’s hiding under the towels are less so, but they showed up _now_ and not _later_. Prompto’s still got a chance.

To hell with whatever he was doing earlier in the week. Gladio’s thoughts are consumed by the here and now, the attention Prompto sorely needs, the hope that now isn’t too late.

 

||| * |||

 

Prompto had indeed been sick--still _is_ sick. Not a terrible cold, but enough of one to prevent him from exerting himself. Noctis is, predictably, not all that concerned about that in the face of everything _else_ \--the robbery, the attempted murder, the lacerations and the gunshot wound and the blood loss.

“That is one tough kid,” the doctor had told them, and Gladio believes it, lets the relief in him claw that statement all the way to the quiet corner of his mind where the well-earned pride surrounding Prompto resides.

Two days later, Prompto is not up for being awake and lucid for more than a few minutes. He’s woozy, somewhat disoriented and worried that he still needs to “stab the enemy” whilst still recovering from his illness, which doesn’t help his recovery from his wounds, or vice versa. The fact remains, though, that he is expected to recover.

He mumbles unintelligibly to Noctis, who somehow understands, and says to Gladio in his best impression of a steady, undrugged tone, “Heroes can be bald, dude.”

He’ll be fine, in time. Gladio wasn’t too late, and, by the Six, is Prompto ever tougher than he looks.

In the meantime, Noctis is like a caged wolf, all restless energy in the face of his unwillingness to leave Prompto alone in case he wakes up and his inability to contribute worth to the investigation that Clarus is working. Gladio has to practically drag him out of the hospital so that he can burn some of it off.

By the time they’re done, Noctis is able to read a short update on Prompto’s condition from Ignis without immediately needing to make his way back to the hospital. Gladio’s confident that they can hit the showers and Noctis will still be around when Gladio reaches for a towel.

He is, too--sitting on a bench near the door and looking convincingly bored as he scrolls through messages. There are others, too, their voices carrying from the other side of the bank of lockers, and Gladio only tunes in to what they’re saying while tugging his clothes back on because they happen to make Noctis look up from his phone with an expression of thinly veiled annoyance.

“Yeah, but it’s been like a week, now,” one voice says, lilting and insufferably smug. “I told you.”

“Finally realized the prince wasn’t gonna help him get to the top,” the other says. “ _Fuck_ , though. I can’t believe it took this long. Fuck you.”

“Eat shit and pay me.”

There’s the unmistakable sound of coins falling against each other, and that’s when Noctis gets to his feet, veil completely gone in the wake of his anger. Gladio shoves him back to the bench without a word and gives him a pointed look before he can protest.

He rounds the corner of the lockers in two steps, and there they are, two idiots without a shred of sense between them. One of them’s still counting the crowns and it’s no small amount.

“Hey, dumbasses,” Gladio snaps as he approaches. They’re both startled when they see him and, wisely, intimidated. “Kid got fucking _shot_ the other day, so unless you think you wanna regale me with what you’d know about it, how about you just figure out where your last two brain cells are and get the hell out?”

He takes a special kind of joy in the way both trainees go thin-lipped and flushed, the way they both think they have some choice words to respond with, but won’t actually dare to follow through on.

Before they can really scatter and hopefully disappear to where Gladio won’t have to see them for a while, he grabs the coins right out of the first trainee’s hand, every single coin paid to him in return for his stupidity.

“This is mine now,” he says. Really, it’ll be Prompto’s soon enough. The trainees bolt like rats immediately after and there’s no way they don’t see Noctis at the door, looking like a smug coeurl that didn’t even have to do anything to catch its meal.

“Specs says Prompto’s starting to actually come around,” Noctis says in lieu of a thank you. “Apparently he tried to convince Iggy that he could go back to his murder house after the hospital discharges him.”

Gladio can think of several places better than the “murder house.” Places that are more secure, that can ensure his needs during recovery are met.

“Yeah, no,” he replies. “Let’s go knock that one out of the running.”

 

||| * |||

 

Once, during the night while Noctis is searching for the nearest washroom and Ignis is napping in a chair, Prompto wakes up. He blinks slowly and then his eyes find Gladio, not entirely focused, but mostly lucid through his drowsiness. 

"Need something?" Gladio asks in a murmur. 

Prompto shakes his head once. He licks his lips, half belying thirst. Instead of asking for water, though, he whispers, "Thanks, man." 

Weak from ragged coughing, wavering under fatigue and emotion, his voice is heavy with its sincerity. 

"No problem," Gladio replies easily. "Go back to sleep before Noct gets back and tries to mother chocobo you."

A smile tugs Prompto's lips only to fade away as he closes his eyes and drifts off again.


End file.
